We’ve all seen it a thousand times: The phone rings. The protagonist answers. A voice on the other end delivers life-changing news. The protagonist says “no thanks” and hangs up. Roll credits on Act One.
The Call to Adventure and the Refusal of the Call have become so codified in screenwriting and storytelling that they’ve calcified into clichĂ©. But here’s what we often forget: these aren’t just boxes to check on your Hero’s Journey worksheet. They’re opportunities—crucial moments that can reveal character, establish your story’s world, and set up the thematic questions that will drive your entire narrative.
So let’s talk about why these steps matter so much, and how the best storytellers use them in ways that feel fresh, organic, and essential rather than obligatory.
Why These Steps Are Critical: The Rich Tapestry
Before we explore innovative approaches, let’s understand what makes these moments so valuable. The Call to Adventure and the Refusal aren’t just plot mechanics—they’re the foundation for everything that follows.
The Call to Adventure establishes:
- What’s at stake: What will happen if the protagonist ignores this moment?
- The rules of your world: Is this a universe where destiny calls? Where random chance disrupts lives? Where institutional systems fail and individuals must step up?
- Your protagonist’s baseline: Who are they before the journey transforms them?
- The story’s central question: What fundamental choice or challenge will define this narrative?
The Refusal of the Call reveals:
- Your protagonist’s deepest fears: What are they so afraid of that they’d rather maintain an unsatisfactory status quo than risk change?
- Their false beliefs: What lies do they tell themselves about who they are and what they’re capable of?
- The wound or trauma: What past experience makes them hesitate when adventure calls?
- Social pressures and obligations: What forces in their world make saying “yes” difficult or dangerous?
When you understand these steps as character and world-building opportunities rather than structural requirements, everything changes. You stop asking “how do I get my protagonist on the journey?” and start asking “what does this moment reveal about who they are and the world they inhabit?”
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The Collective Refusal: Jaws
Let’s start with one of the most brilliant subversions of these beats: Jaws.
Chief Brody receives a very literal call—a shark attack has occurred. But here’s what makes it interesting: Brody doesn’t refuse the call. He immediately wants to close the beaches. He recognizes the threat and knows what must be done.
It’s the town that refuses.
The Mayor, the business owners, the entire political and economic structure of Amity Island goes into denial. They refuse to accept the adventure—the responsibility—that’s been thrust upon them. And that refusal costs Alex Kittner his life.
This approach does something remarkable: it transforms the Refusal from a character beat into a thematic statement. Jaws becomes a story about institutional failure, about economic interests overriding public safety, about the cost of denial. The refusal isn’t about Brody’s personal journey—it’s about systemic corruption and cowardice.
And when Brody finally does get his “call” to go on the boat with Quint and Hooper, he’s terrified of water. His real refusal isn’t verbal—it’s the fear written on his face every time he looks at the ocean. The story earns emotional depth by having multiple layers of refusal operating simultaneously.
The Invisible Call: Mad Max: Fury Road
Sometimes the most powerful calls to adventure don’t announce themselves at all.
In Mad Max: Fury Road, there’s no moment where Max decides to embark on a quest. The call isn’t a choice—it’s circumstance. He’s captured, used as a blood bag, and swept up in Furiosa’s escape plan. His “adventure” is simply survival, moment to moment.
The refusal? It’s built into Max’s entire character. He’s a man who has refused connection, refused community, refused to care about anything beyond his own survival. His refusal isn’t a single moment—it’s his entire worldview. The story becomes about breaking down that refusal, convincing a broken man that helping others matters.
This approach works because it’s organic to character rather than structural obligation. The Hero’s Journey is still there, but it’s invisible, woven into the fabric of who Max is and how he changes.
The Internal Call: Nomadland
Not all calls to adventure are external. Sometimes the call is a whisper from within.
In Nomadland, Fern doesn’t receive a phone call or a letter or a visit from a mysterious stranger. The “call” is the complete collapse of her previous life—her husband’s death, the closure of the gypsum plant, the literal erasure of her town from the map.
Her “refusal” isn’t dramatic. It’s subtle, internal. She could accept her sister’s offer of a room, a stable life, a return to conventional society. Instead, she chooses the road—but even as she chooses it, she’s refusing to fully commit to either world. She’s refusing to grieve, refusing to settle, refusing to name what she’s running from or running toward.
The power of this approach is that it treats the Call and Refusal as ongoing negotiations rather than discrete moments. Fern is constantly being called to different versions of life, and constantly refusing them, throughout the entire film.
The Delayed Recognition: The Matrix
Sometimes the most interesting calls are the ones the protagonist doesn’t recognize as calls.
Neo has been searching for Morpheus, but when Trinity appears in the club, he doesn’t realize he’s being offered the adventure he’s been seeking. Later, when Morpheus actually extends the red pill/blue pill choice, Neo has already been primed. The “refusal” happened earlier—in his attempts to sell the disk, in his corporate job, in his decision to follow the white rabbit against his better judgment.
What makes this work is that it shows us a protagonist who wants the call but fears it simultaneously. The refusal and acceptance are happening in parallel. He’s refusing with his conscious mind while accepting with his subconscious desires.
The Forced Call: The Hunger Games
Katniss Everdeen doesn’t refuse the call to adventure—she volunteers for it. But this apparent acceptance masks a deeper refusal: she refuses to be the Mockingjay, refuses to be a symbol, refuses to care about anything beyond protecting Prim.
Her real call to adventure isn’t the Hunger Games themselves—it’s the call to become a leader, a symbol, a revolutionary. And that call? She refuses it for as long as she possibly can.
This structure works because it creates a double-layered story. The surface adventure (survive the Games) is what she accepts. The true adventure (lead a revolution) is what she refuses until she has no choice.
Making It Work in Your Story
So how do you apply these principles to your own writing?
Ask yourself:
- Who or what is really issuing the call? Is it a person, an event, society, destiny, or the protagonist’s own conscience?
- Can the call be gradual rather than sudden? Does it build through a series of smaller moments that culminate in recognition?
- Can someone else refuse on the protagonist’s behalf? Can the refusal be institutional, cultural, or communal rather than individual?
- Is the refusal internal or external? Your protagonist might say “yes” while everything in their behavior screams “no.”
- Can the call and refusal operate on multiple levels? Surface call accepted, deeper call refused?
Consider the worldbuilding opportunities:
- In a dystopia, the call might be illegal or punishable by death (the refusal is rational, not cowardly)
- In a romance, the call might be emotional vulnerability (the refusal is self-protection)
- In a mystery, the call might be to see an uncomfortable truth (the refusal is willful blindness)
- In historical fiction, the call might challenge social norms (the refusal is societal pressure)
Remember the character revelation: The way your protagonist receives and responds to the call should be absolutely unique to them. A cautious person and a reckless person will respond to the same call in completely different ways. Show us who they are through how they handle this moment.
The Phone Call Can Still Work
None of this means you can’t use a literal phone call or a stranger showing up at the door. The issue isn’t the mechanics—it’s the execution. If that phone call reveals character, establishes world, and creates thematic resonance, then it’s earned.
But if it’s just there because your structure chart says “call to adventure goes here,” then you’re missing the opportunity these moments provide.
The Call to Adventure and the Refusal of the Call aren’t obligations. They’re invitations—to explore your character’s fears and desires, to establish the rules and stakes of your world, to set up the thematic questions that will drive your entire story.
Answer that invitation with intention, and your story’s foundation will be unshakeable.
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